


and freddy's got spots from ripping off the stars from his face

by collective (orphan_account)



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Glam Rock, Makeup, Masturbation, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-03-30 11:29:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3935152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/collective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's almost perfect when he can hear Blink-182 fade into Lady Stardust, seemingly out of place although he knows it's just right. (aka: Indulgent Glam Exploration Crap)</p>
            </blockquote>





	and freddy's got spots from ripping off the stars from his face

**Author's Note:**

> this is waaaay rushed and not read over, and i'm not even sorry. if you follow me on tumblr, you'll know that my favorite thing next to mindless self indulgence is glam rock. so, yeah. michael clifford + glam rock, yaaaaay. title taken from mott the hoople's all the young dudes!!
> 
> also, there's a lot of music symbolism in this?? idk if that's what to call it, so watch out for that if you wanna

He stares at the tube of his mother's rouge between his fingers. It's not something he wants to think about too hard.  
  
Some sort of glam rock should probably be playing in the background instead of the power chords and flat vocals that hang empty in the air; the hum of David Bowie or the noise of Iggy Pop. It's almost perfect when he can hear Blink-182 fade into Lady Stardust, seemingly out of place although he knows it's just right. A part of him wants to sprinkle rose petals and light some vanilla-scented candles, but it's all pushed to the back of his mind when Ziggy begins to sing.  
  
He's not going to think about any of it.  
  
Everything feels all soft around the edges, fuzzy like he's dreaming when he leans in. His lips fall open, ample and pink against the pale milkiness of his skin, touched by an acne scar just below the corner of his mouth and uneven stubble, running over his upper lip, traveling down his chin and over the top of his neck. He's about to touch the thinner end of the lipstick to the left point of his lips when he eyes a razor on the counter, glinting under the heat of light bulbs.  
  
Okay, he's thinking about it. It makes him cap the makeup, twist it down nearly too late, setting it down on it's side. He can hear the clatter of plastic against a hard surface, rattling as the tube falls into the sink. It's enough to make him pace, toes bending into carpet. He double checks the lock of his door and even folds some of his clothes, placing them into his closet with the words of David Bowie flowing into his ears and burning through his brain.  
  
He's back in the bathroom not too long after, tube of rouge between his fingers, and he's not going to think about it.  
  
He goes through the motions quicker this time, not letting the glint of any blade catch his eye and pouting in preparation for the first swipe of red. It's deep and sultry and he's heavy with his strokes, two thick lines meeting in the middle. The edges are sharp where his lips are plumpest before they smudge near the ends. He uses a nail to attempt and scrape the waxiness from his skin, a crimson residue left on the tip of his finger.  
  
He's not sure if he should do the same to the top lip or rub his lips together like he's seen women do before. He ends up settling for both, the slide of not-quite slickness making him squeeze his eyes shut. He opens them again to curve the color around his Cupid's bow, twisting his wrist carefully.  
  
It takes a few moments to sink in, focused on getting the makeup closed before he's examining himself in the mirror. He rubs his fingers around the edges, cleaning them up or smudging them even worse, smiling when he's done. It's totally Rocky Horror Picture Show and he's totally into it, feeling a bit like a mix between Tim Curry and Buffalo Bill. _Oh, his animal grace._  
  
He rubs his eyes when he feels tears pricking at them, rubbing at wet eyelashes and laughing at himself in the mirror. He's got lipstick on his teeth, all waxy and kind of sweet but, then again, not really. There's the horn of Alice Cooper's Clones, and it's only then he notices his cock pressing against the counter. It's good and heavy in his jeans, and he lets his fingers run over the outline of it. His other hand grips the counter. Such a fucking tease.  
  
He allows for his fingers to drag up his zipper, toy with the dark hair against his belly. His fringe falls over his eye when he rocks forward, denim stretched tight over his thigh. He reaches for the button of his jeans, thumbing over the top button. Pressure. So much pressure. His breath hitches.  
  
The eyes of a stranger stare right back at him in the mirror, sexier and more confident than Michael will ever be. He pops open the second button, not even bothering with the zipper when he shoves his underwear and jeans down in one go. They press into the meat of his thighs, stopping at the top of the midway point.  
  
A groan gets caught in his throat when he can feel his cock in his hand, hard and huge, exposed and flushed dark. He lets himself pull back, licking his palm before getting his hand back on himself. Good, good, so fucking good. He's leaking, wet and messy and slick and there's no way he's going to last long, breath coming out in little pants that sound like they should almost belong to a girl. He's fucking turning himself on.  
  
He feels sexy and hot and he can digest that the person in the mirror is him. His knees quake under him, hips shoving forward with the movements of his hand, jeans cutting lines into his thighs. His breath is coming even faster, even hotter, the bite of elastic making everything just that much more intense.  
  
He can't make himself stop or make himself go slower— he's so fucking excited, so fucking close. His lips purse, rubbing together and he's probably getting lipstick all over his face in the process. He can't bring himself to care, a moan clawing at his Adam's apple and he's stroking himself faster, tighter, harder.  
  
"Fuck," he gasps, just to hear himself over the music and his voice comes out rough and shot and frantic. He's trying to slow down, hang onto the edge before he falls off. Fuck, fuck. Too much, it's too much, a spark of heat low in his belly before— fuck, _Christ_. He drops his head. " _Jesus_ fucking _Christ_."  
  
There's the electric pluck of a Nirvana cover, a fall of an era, and he comes hot and hard. It stripes against the counter, his voice lost in the lyrics. Kurt Cobain collides with the lipstick smeared onto his cheek, _when did that get there?_ , and he wonders if he looks more Courtney Love this way.  
  
Back to where he started; he's shoving his cock back into his pants when he pulls them up, hastily buttoning them, songs of darkness and disgrace ringing in his head. His eyes may be bright but he scrubs at the lipstick on his skin with cold water. It leaves a stain around the outside of his mouth and on his fingers, pink like the blush high on his cheeks. Wet hands run through his hair and he peers up at himself through his lashes, eyebrows furrowing before he sighs.  
  
He tucks the lipstick into his pajama drawer, hasty and ashamed. Until next time.

**Author's Note:**

> feedback is super appreciated. you can either comment here or shoot me a message (and/or follow) my tumblr, longhairedcasey.tumblr.com


End file.
